A rundown shop of old joys, now just a wreck, with a little touch of mystery.
Concluders haunt the frozen lands of their home in search of knowledge.
The tears of a blinded god created it.
A list of harmless (if sometimes annoying) potions.
A five room dungeon with the appropriate clashes of steel, smooth talking, and betrayal.
Your average posse of adventurous types is hired by a wizard to stop the attacks on a small village.
A blade that lives, and has lived for millennia.
"Thentr was made from moonlight and flame; he has killed one of the mighty rulers of the skies; he has yet to return home".
-Old Cro, the story teller
The story I am about to tell you is one of magic and of monsters, of bravery and courage, of good and of evil, but most importantly of Flame and he who wished to quench it - Old Cro, the story teller.
The numorous denizens of Thanethia all in one place.
To see one of the wolfkin running is an inspiring sight, they move as if they had wings instead of legs, as if they were not tied to the ground, but could soar among the clouds
What would you do if you were offered the chance to be a monster?
The things you could do just by pointing…
Wytchwolde-Under-Ash, once a great Thorpe, was razed to the ground by the ruthless, and truth told more than slightly deranged, Porcelain Princess and her henchmen, the Purifiers. When the flames had at last subsided, and a kaleidoscope of swirling, dull-gray ash choked the sky, nine hundred acres of old growth iron spruce, black larch and weeping birch, was burned to utter cinders, along with the entire coven of witches comprising the Sisterhood of the Silver Teat.
Now, centuries later, the forests are somewhat re-grown, and the town of Foolswater stands where Wytchwolde-Under-Ash once did. It is said that even to this day, one can still find ashes in the otherwise potable well-water of this village. Once a year during the Winter Solstice, the “Ash-Wind” comes to Foolswater, a suffocating black cloud that passes quickly but leaves dead birds and animals in its wake, darkening the trees, and staining the sky with black snow. The inhabitants of the village know better than to be caught outside during the day-long Ash-Wind. Everyone is locked snugly inside, singing old hymns that curse and re-curse the burned witches who once called this place home.